Excerpts

   “Beuna, chica, buena,” Carmen said, kissing her daughter’s cheek.  She walked further into the house and Gunnar leaned his head back against the couch.  “¿Hijo, como estás?”

   “I am well, mor,” Gunnar said as Carmen kissed his forehead.  Carmen Colón Carver had become a second mother to him, stepping in while his own mother Tekla was in Norway.  Carmen and Tekla got on very well, and sometimes Gunnar thought they were more excited about August 8^th than he and Tyler were.

   “Mommy, I gave Damon a bottle and hour ago and then—”

   “Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, corazón,” Carmen said, cupping her daughter’s cheek.  “Spend it with your young man.”

   “But—”

   “Go on, you two,” Carmen said with a grin, taking her grandson from Gunnar’s arms.  “It’s a day for lovers.”

   Gunnar stood and saw Tyler’s indecision all on her face.  He suddenly realized why she’d conveniently let Gunnar forget about the holiday.  Carmen.  She would be spending it alone, and after years of not having her mother close, Tyler deigned to leave her by herself.

   His heart swelling further with love, Gunnar approached Tyler and cupped her cheeks in his hands.  “She’ll be all right, kjære,” he whispered.

   Tyler looked at him in confusion.  “What?”

   “Your mother…she’ll be all right.”

   She looked at him in surprise.  “What do you mean?”

   Grinning, he kissed her softly.  “Being alone.  She’ll be okay, honey.  Besides, she knows where to get us and Wendy and Damon should something happen with the baby.”

   Pulling back slightly, Tyler looked around Gunnar to see her mother grinning at a beaming Damon, Jr.  “Mommy.”

   “Listen to your young man, corazón,” Carmen said.  “We will be fine, won’t we, nieto?”

   The baby laughed and reached out chubby hands to his grandmother’s lips.

   With that, Gunnar went back over to Carmen and Damon, Jr., kissing both on the cheek before grabbing his messenger bag and the photos from the couch, then taking Tyler’s hand in his.

   “We’ll be at my house,” Gunnar told his future mother-in-law.

   “And we’ll be here.  You two have a happy Valentine’s Day.”

   “We’ll have dinner tomorrow!” Tyler said as Gunnar led her out the door.

   “I better not even see you tomorrow, corazón!” Carmen said on a laugh.  Gunnar guffawed, especially at Tyler’s shocked expression.

   “Did my mama just—?!”

   “Give us permission to give her more grandbabies?  Yes, yes, she did.”

Shiloh turned to douse the rest of the lights, so many questions whirring through her mind.  It had been four years since she’d seen him, since he’d guided her and her brothers to a Union camp under moonlight.  She hadn’t wanted to leave him in the midst of war, with the deafening reports of guns and the smell of smoke and burning flesh, and had tried in vain to convince him to stay with them.  But he’d smiled, kissed her forehead, and promised he’d always be with her.  Shiloh didn’t know how that would’ve been possible when she nor her brothers had no idea where they were going after their escape; but they’d ended up West, and West was a lot of territory.  Still, that hadn’t stopped her heart from beating extra fast whenever she’d caught a glimpse of someone who could’ve been familiar.  Funny how it remained steady when she finally did reunite with the man who’d changed her life so much.

Shiloh heard him stand and she glanced his way as she moved from behind the counter to the door.  He approached but maintained space between them.  She’d forgotten how tall he actually was, having to tilt her head back to look into his eyes.  Then again, her brothers weren’t tiny, either, but it was merely a tilt of the head to look at either of them.  The lamps from the street provided a little light in the otherwise darkened saloon, but she wouldn’t have needed that to know he was staring at her.  The power of his eyes couldn’t be ignored.

“I will walk you home,” he said softly.

She shook her head and left the saloon, his footfalls thumping behind her on the plank steps.  “That’s unnecessary.  It’s just down the way.  Within shoutin’ distance.”

“Your brother thought it fit to walk you there before he left.”

“I’m a single woman and he thinks I can’t take care of myself,” Shiloh said, walking on to the boarding house.  Nashoba’s laugh seemed to curl into her ears, making her smile.

“You know that is not true.  He just wants to make sure you do not have to, Chilita.  That is what one does for someone he holds dear.”

Shiloh looked away from him to hide a blush he wouldn’t be able to see even if it were high noon.  Very rarely did someone speak to her with unadorned tenderness.  Nashoba had called her brave and was still able to acknowledge the fact she was a woman.  Even her brothers could be borderline crude with her, but that was their way.  She didn’t put up with foolishness or posturing, but that didn’t mean a small, feminine part of her didn’t want or appreciate soft words and gentle phrases.  Granted, she preferred britches to the long skirts most women wore.  She enjoyed the freedom and the ease with which she could move.  She also thought that much fabric was a bit wasteful, and she didn’t abide by unnecessary excess.

“It is the same reason why I am walking you back, Shiloh.  That and because…”

He didn’t respond, as if letting the memories of what happened between them all those years ago swirl between them.  It had been intense, bringing about irrevocable changes for her, she knew; but she sensed for him as well.  Definitely for his people.  She couldn’t help but hear of the battles going on throughout the territories between the Indians and the Army.  But he was here, and at least the shell of him was whole.

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered, stealing a peek at him.

“Hmm,” he intoned, stroking his chin.  “Miha moma…”

Shiloh burst out laughing and shoved him lightly.  “I will not say that again!  You lucky you got that much out of me.”

“I’ve gotten more than that in the past…”

She abruptly stopped walking, glad she had that excuse for she was at the boarding house.  He turned to her, his lips tilted in a half grin.  Shiloh looked down at her feet to hide her responding grin, the boots she wore dusty from the road and scuffed from age.  A larger pair of boots, much newer and nicer, came into view, the tips of those touching the tips of hers.

“I will see you again,” Nashoba said.

“In another four years?”

“Not quite that long,” the deep voice replied.  “Sleep well, chunkash champuli.”

Sweetheart. Grinning wider, Shiloh kept her head bowed and didn’t raise it again until she was sure Nashoba was out of sight.

The drive back to the train station had been hard, as well as the even lonelier train ride back to Penn Station. Dimitri had met AJ there, and he gave him an encouraging pat on the back.

“It’ll work out,” Dimitri said. “New Year, new beginnings…”

AJ said that phrase like a mantra as he boarded his plane back to Athens the next day; during the subsequent days where he received not so much as an e-mail from Samara; during the weeks when the restaurant had gotten so busy that all he could do was wake up and go to bed from exhaustion. Returning to Greece had been torture, much as it had been when Samara had left the first time. Yet this time, there weren’t any long conversations on the phone, IM, or webcam. It was as if Samara had been completely cut off from him, and all calls or e-mails to her remained unanswered.

AJ threw himself into his work, so much so he didn’t even realize it was February until Spyros entered his bedroom blowing a kazoo and throwing confetti in his bed.

“Get up, you old coot! Happy Birthday! Thirty-five today!”

AJ shuddered and threw an aimless pillow in Spyros’s direction. “Go to hell.”

“After you,” Spyros said cheekily. “And you’re one year closer to it yourself! Thirty-five! You’re as old as the Acropolis!” Spyros cackled, and blew the kazoo in the most irritating manner known to mankind.

“Happy Birthday, indeed,” AJ murmured, his eyes going to the painting that now hung on the wall across from him so it would be the first thing he saw every morning. His heart constricted painfully as his eyes took in him and Samara together, then looked at the cold, empty space next to him.

“Happy Birthday, indeed…”

AJ showered and dressed as normal, thinking it was very fitting his birthday fell on a Monday this year. At least he could hide his despondency in his work, but he knew better than to be completely surly. His mother lived for birthdays; and considering he was her only child, he would try to be excited about the day for her benefit. Besides, this was the anniversary of her motherhood as well as his birth. As such, a sincere smile did form on his face when he thought of the gift he’d bought for her. Every year, since his eighteenth birthday, AJ had given his mother a gift on his birthday to celebrate her day, thinking it belonged to her as much as it belonged to him. This year he’d gotten them plane tickets to go to Santa Monica to visit Aunt Airlia and Uncle Feodras in May, right before the Athens tourist season started. It had been far too long since they’d seen them, which had been at Khristos’s funeral almost two years ago.

AJ bounded down the stairs and walked to the restaurant. As soon as he entered, he was bombarded with well wishes and benign ribbing. His uncle, Spyros’s father, gave him a cane with a shiny blue bow on it, and AJ let out a genuine laugh. His Uncle Andros had always had a fantastic sense of humor.

“We’re closing early, party tonight to celebrate my favorite nephew!” Uncle Andros said laughingly as he gave AJ a hug.

“Hey!” Anatole exclaimed indignantly.

Uncle Andros laughed again. “AJ doesn’t hear it when I say it to you, does he?”

After that, AJ’s day turned out to be surprisingly wonderful, definitely the best day of the New Year by far. His mother stole a moment of privacy with him and they hugged in his office for a very long time.

“I’m proud of you, mijo,” Luz said in a mixture of Greek and Spanish.

AJ kissed the top of his mother’s head and squeezed her tighter. “You’re my first love, Mama. Never forget that.”

Luz grasped her son’s chin with a quick, gentle pressure before patting him maternally on his backside. “Break’s over. Get back to work.”

Perhaps it was because the restaurant closed earlier that day, but AJ didn’t feel nearly as exhausted as he had been for the past few weeks at the end of the workday. In fact, his mood was light as Spyros pulled him down into the seat of honor and the employees brought a cake out with thirty-five sparkling candles. Luz ran her fingers through his hair, looking upon her son with pure adoration and pride. Family. He’d been living in his funk and missing Samara so much that he’d forgotten he had an entire host of people who loved him .

“Thank you,” AJ whispered, his throat uncharacteristically tight before he blew out the candles with two breaths.

For the next hour, everyone ate and talked and danced. Luz absolutely loved her present, and told him she was going off to call Aunt Airlia with the news. Ana pulled AJ from the table and encouraged him to dance, and he surrendered to the merriment of the day. He was enjoying himself so much that he almost missed the piercing whistle that brought everything to a halt. Knowing it had come from Spyros, he glared at his cousin, who shrugged and pointed frantically to his mother.

“I haven’t given you my gift yet, mijo,” Luz said with a soft, loving smile on her face.

AJ looked to the table, then back to his mother with a frown. “Mama?”

“Happy Birthday—oh!” Luz laughed, surprised when AJ lifted her off her feet and hugged her tightly. The rest of the party laughed as well, but AJ’s ears had honed onto one laugh in particular, belonging to the one person he never thought he would see.

The readout was missing a few letters.  They spelled “Not”, as in “Not Pregnant”.

There was not a sound to be heard, a breath to be breathed, a pulse to be pulsed.  Rosita and Bevin stared at each other, she on the commode and Bevin on the side of the tub.  Her best friend’s golden eyes dropped to Rosita’s midsection.

“Lawdhavmercy,” Bevin rasped.

Rosita dropped the stick as if it had shot up a thousand degrees in one second and scrambled off the toilet.  She stared wide-eyed at it, her mind telling her she’d suddenly become illiterate, that she did not read what she just read.

“No puedo leer en inglés,” Rosita muttered.

The shocked expression on Bevin’s midnight-hued face melted into one of amusement.  “Yes, you can read English.  Very well, in fact.  Welcome to the club, Rosita.”

Rosita glared at Bevin, two seconds away from sticking out her tongue and cussing her out in fluent Spanish, when a knock on the door made them both jump.

“Damn!  What?” Rosita snapped.

“Uh, are y’all okay in there?”

Rosita’s nostrils flared in frustration while Bevin’s flared for an entirely different reason.  Rosita sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes.  “Hussy.”

Bevin glanced down at the stick, then raised an eyebrow at her friend.  “Pot, kettle, innit?”

“Bevin?”

“We’re fine, baby,” Bevin called to her husband, taking a few squares of toilet paper to pick up the stick and throw it in the trash.  “You need to use the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s my child?”

“With his godfather.”

“Is my child still alive?”

“Bevin,” came the sigh, and Bevin grinned, washing her hands.

“All right, my love, we’re on our way out,” she promised, cutting off the water and drying her hands on one of the towels.  Bevin opened the door and giggled as Tim gathered her close and gave her a gentle kiss on the mouth.

Rosita pretended she didn’t notice any of this as she washed her hands as well, her heart squeezing at the possibility that could be her one day.  Her and…

Tim Capshaw dangled the bottleneck between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, staring intently at the booth where the singular young woman with a curly bob stared sentry-like onto the dance floor.  Tim wasn’t exactly sure why his eyes had stopped on her during his slow casing of the joint, but they had.  Maybe it was because she looked so out of place—and it wasn’t because she was one of the few black bodies in the building.  It was her rigid posture; the fact her black top covered more than exposed; and the fact there was an empty three-foot radius around her that was rarely broken by anything other than women or servers who would chat her up for a few seconds then leave her alone again.  She didn’t seem sad or depressed, either, which further intrigued him.  She looked comfortable in her skin, and to Tim, that was sexy as hell.

There was a continuous hum of sound in his left ear, and Tim realized it was from a slim redhead who had one of the most stunning pairs of blue eyes he’d ever seen, but a body with more angles than a stop sign.  Tim gritted his teeth and took another swig of his beer.  Her interest wasn’t reciprocated, unfortunately, but he would give her a B+ for effort.

“Ah, you found her,” the redhead said, pointing toward the black woman he’d been watching earlier.  “If you go over there with a drink or something, chat her up, then I’m sure she’ll give you permission to take me home tonight.”  The redhead ran her tongue over her bottom lip in what he assumed was supposed to be a provocative gesture.  Tim took another sip from his beer so he wouldn’t laugh in her face.

“Is she your mother or something?” he asked dryly, his Alabama drawl almost sprawling as the alcohol started taking effect.  He looked at the redhead with a raised eyebrow.  “Your sponsor?”

Her eyes fluttered and her cheeks turned red.  He grinned.  The woman was much cuter when she blushed.

“Nothing like that,” she assured him, resting her hand on his muscular forearm.  He watched her painted-red nails catch some of the dim amber light in the bar as she flexed her fingers.  He switched his bottle from his right to left hand, the muscles underneath her fingers cording when he gripped the bottle.  This time he didn’t hide his smile when she unsuccessfully stifled her whimper.

“Who is she, then?” Tim asked, staring at the redhead when he really wanted to look back at the booth.

“Our gatekeeper.”

“Gatekeeper?”

“She keeps the losers away from us.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “And what makes you think I’m not a loser?”

“Other than the fact I know you wear a trident?” she asked, her blue-eyed gaze roving slowly over his form while her fingers caressed his forearm.  “You don’t have the look of a loser.”

A corner of Tim’s full-lipped mouth curved.  “Looks can deceive.”

“I’m nothing if not adventurous.”

The redhead smirked and leaned against the bar.  Tim drank the final few drops of his beer and set the bottle on the bar in front of him.  “What’s her poison?”

“Who, Bevin?”

“Is that her name?” Tim asked, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, and um, nonalcoholic, I know—she’s our DD.”

He nodded and tapped on the bar.  When the bartender approached, Tim ordered.  “Can I get a Diet Coke and another one of these?” he asked, pointing to the empty beer bottle.  A few moments later, both orders appeared before him, and Tim slapped down a ten.  “Keep the change,” he drawled, and the bartender nodded thanks.

“Come back and let me know what she says, yeah?” the redhead commanded when Tim slid off the barstool.

Tim didn’t answer her, already stalking toward his quarry.

She took in one last breath before turning towards the glass doors and freezing, exhaling harshly and falling back against the railing for support. Jada could only blink, disbelieving her eyes. He stood not even five feet away from her, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, Versace if she remembered his tastes right, and looking every bit as handsome as he had five years ago, even with his new beard. His hair was shorter though, yet the waviness of it was still apparent, and his green eyes looked right through her, as if he had X-ray vision and could see all the secret pining for him she’d hidden for years.

Jada gripped the railing tighter when he came closer, slowly, as a hunter cornering his prey. He put his hands in his coat’s pockets and stopped a foot away from her, eyes darting all along her face.

“Jaybird?”

She closed her eyes at the familiarity, having not heard that name in years. She counted to ten and opened them again. “Aaron.”

He smiled and Jada instantly felt warm. She smiled in return because it was an automatic response whenever he did. His smile widened and he enveloped her in a large hug, lifting her off the ground with ease despite her filling out a bit since the last time he’d seen her.

“It’s been so long,” he whispered in her hair and he set her on the ground, his hands cool against her bare shoulder blades as they slid up her nape to tangle underneath her bun.

“Five years,” she said softly in his neck, eyes closed as she allowed her body to settle into the intimacy and naturalness of the embrace. It was as if they’d just seen each other yesterday and not five years ago, as if they hadn’t exchanged the first words to each other in over four. She pulled back, but not before he snuck a kiss to her forehead.

“You’re beautiful,” he said seriously, rubbing his hands along her arms. She gave him a skeptical look and shook her head. “You are. You’re absolutely glowing.”

“It’s the shimmer makeup.”

“Still can’t accept a compliment, can you?” he asked on a light chuckle.

“You always flattered me too much.”

“Every word I say I mean,” Aaron said, his stare intense.

Jada laughed and stepped away, needing to put distance between them. He was making it too easy to fall back into their friendship, but too much had happened for that to be the best thing to do. There was an entire seaboard separating them anyway, and she didn’t have the freedom she once had while in college. She had responsibilities now…

“How’s McKensie Lowman doing? And Ricci’s? Things going well there?” Jada asked, steering the conversation to safer territories.

“Both are doing well. In fact, we’re opening a McKensie Lowman building here, and I’m overseeing it.”

Panic briefly flitted across Jada’s face before it settled into a smile again. “Really?”

“Yes. I thought it was about time we had a southern division; makes us more accessible to our clients that way.”

“And the Falcons are one of them?”

“Yes. Besides…I won’t deny I had a personal motivation to open offices down here…”

Surreal was the only word Jada could think of during this entire reunion. But she gathered her bearings quickly. “Is that right?”

“Yeah…”

Jada wouldn’t entertain the fact she could be this “personal reason,” no matter how tempting the thought was. She pasted on another smile and held out her hand. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay in Atlanta, Aaron.”

He took her hand and closed his other one on top of it, a small frown on his face. “What’s wrong? You act like you’re not happy to see me.”

“It’s just that my friend’s inside and—”

“There you are, dearest!” another voice sounded from behind Aaron, and Jada tried not to tense. The woman’s heels clicked against the stones of the terrace as she came toward them, and though Jada began tugging her hand from Aaron’s, he wouldn’t let go. He smiled over his shoulder at the arrival.

“I’m not lost, sweetheart.”

“But I still couldn’t find you,” the woman said on a laugh, but it petered out when she saw who was with him. Jada gave a small smile, and the other woman arched an eyebrow but returned the gesture. “Well…aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Aaron was staring at Jada again, and she cleared her throat. “Oh!” Aaron exclaimed, then chuckled embarrassedly. “Of course! Jada this is Veronica Prescott; Veronica, this is Jada Channing…”

“Charmed,” Veronica said, holding out a hand.

Jada accepted it. “Likewise.”

Veronica’s handshake was as flimsy as her act of genuine pleasure, and they dropped hands after a quick interval. Jada shrunk a little as she looked at Veronica, with her beautiful black hair and beautiful blue eyes along with a model’s lithe form. Jada felt self-conscious.

“Did you need me for something?” Aaron asked Veronica. The woman slid her arm through his free one and gave him a large, bright smile. “One of the owners wanted to talk to you about financial forecasts for the Falcons if they go all the way to the Super Bowl…I told him I’d come find you.”

Aaron groaned and gave Jada a sympathetic smile. “Even at a party I’m on the job. I guess we’ll have to cut this reunion short…”

“That’s fine,” Jada said kindly. “I have to find my friend anyway.”

“Well, how about we get together later so we can catch up more?” Aaron asked, gazing earnestly at her. Jada didn’t look at Veronica though she felt the other woman’s eyes on her. It wouldn’t be a good idea for Aaron to re-enter her life; they should just leave this meeting as an aberration instead of making a habit of it.

“I’m going to be really busy, as I’m sure you will be—”

“Oh, c’mon Jada, you know I’d always make time for you.”

Then what about these past few years? Jada only smiled, squeezing his hand subconsciously. “We’ll see.”

“Yes…” He pulled his arm from Veronica and reached into the inside of his suit jacket, pulling out a business card. “Here’s the information to my office. And—oh, wait—” He pulled his hand from hers to take out a pen and write a number on the back of the card.

“That’s my cell number,” Aaron said, closing the card in her hand and his own hand over hers. “Unfortunately, I don’t have yours anymore; I think I accidentally erased it when I got a new cell phone a few years ago.” All three laughed, but only one was genuine. “But now we’re reconnected, right?”

“Hmm.”

Aaron’s smile turned soft, and he cupped her face, bringing her cheek to his lips. “It’s wonderful to see you again,” he said lowly, for her ears only. “It really makes my Christmas…”

“Mine too,” she said. He rubbed her cheek with his thumb before dropping his hand and leaving, Veronica slipping her arm back through his as they left.

Tyler really wished she were more surprised to see Gunnar walking through the door than she was, but she had been expecting…hoping…he would stop by for another haircut again.

She refused to think of the implications of doing so.

Gunnar was wearing his usual leather jacket and smirk, but instead of the breakaway pants he had been wearing the last time, black jeans hugged his strong thighs and ass she knew damn well would make an excellent trampoline for a quarter. He took off the jacket and hung it on the coat rack this time, revealing a deep blue crew neck sweater that enhanced the musculature of his torso and arms.

He brushed a hand over his head. “Can I get a haircut? I know I didn’t make an appointment, but I figured it would be okay to walk in since the last time I was here it wasn’t busy.”

Tyler shrugged, trying to go for a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Sure. You can have a seat—”

“Ah…I was wondering if I could get a wash too? I figure I should go for the full effect since I missed out on it last time.”

“Oh…”

“I mean it’s okay if—”

“Sure,” Tyler said quickly, then shook her head in bemusement. This was the strangest man she’d ever met. “It won’t cost extra if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Gunnar nodded. He was staring at her again. She had never known eyes to have such a presence of their own, but his did. It didn’t matter that the rest of him was such an impeccable specimen of the male form, his eyes ensnared her every time. He probably spoke more with his eyes than with his mouth, and Tyler admitted she tended to like what his eyes said.

One

He spotted her in the market as he was shopping for fresh ingredients for his restaurant. She was clearly an American, for Americans tended to stick out like sore thumbs, especially in Greece. It was the way she carried herself: cautious, but not nearly cautious enough, as if someone wouldn't have the unmitigated gall to approach and do something untoward to her. She was looking at the wares being sold at Monastiraki. It was clear she wasn't really interested in buying anything, but she gave the vendors shy smiles and nodded when appropriate. Before he knew what he was doing, he paid for his purchases and began following her.

She was a black woman, her skin not as dark as he had seen with other women, but there was a dark-caramel hue to her that shone beautifully against the pink sundress she was wearing. The straps were thin, and her chest seemed bountiful and full in the bodice. Her cleavage was stunning, he thought, and her skin seemed so smooth.

Her hair was in that natural Afro style, and there was a cliff rose flower tucked behind her ear. She was by no means the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her body probably wouldn't grace a magazine cover in the near future, but she was his very definition of a woman: soft, lush, delicately strong. He thought her adorable, especially since she seemed oblivious to the looks other men were giving her. Not oblivious in the sense she knew she was getting the attention and was patently ignoring it, but in a way that seemed like she didn't even think it was possible she could enchant someone the way she was. It was as if she needed someone to help her discover all the treasures she possessed, and he was nothing if not an ardent and enthusiastic explorer of the female form.

She stopped at another booth where flowers were sold. She took time to smell them, clearly pleased by the scent of the orchids she had stopped to peruse. The vendor spoke to her, telling her more about the flora.

"Thank you," he saw her mouth form, and the corners of his mouth turned up.

She had bewitched him completely, and he was bewildered. Something about her called to him, that shyness and vulnerability he saw. Unable to ignore it, he found himself approaching the booth, his lips quirking slightly when she remained ever cautious, yet oblivious to his focus on her.

"I'd like a bouquet for the lady," he said in English to the vendor, wanting this enchantress to know he meant the gift for her. She looked at him with another cursory smile, though her eyes widened. Brown eyes. They were oval-shaped and sweet and a pretty brown, like syrup. She looked behind her, then glanced his way once more before telling the vendor, "thank you" again and leaving.

He was confused as the vendor gave him the flowers, until he looked to his right and saw an attractive brunette also perusing the flowers. He chuckled to himself. His charming pink lady had assumed he wasn't referring to her. Well, he would find her and let her know otherwise.

She wasn't hard to spot; there weren't many people of color in the market, and the pink outfit was like a beacon to him. She stopped in front of another booth where paintings were sold, but her posture was one of, "I'm just browsing, won't be staying long."

Before he allowed her to get away from him again, he approached, calling out to her as her back was to him.

"Miss, you forgot your flowers."

She didn't respond, didn't even turn to look at him. She continued looking at the knockoff paintings at her feet, her brows furrowed and her fingers tapping at her lips. He chuckled to himself, unable to believe this woman was so lost in her own world. That could be dangerous, especially since she was foreign and traveling alone. She would need an escort.

He was volunteering himself.

He went closer to her, this time bending his six-foot-three frame so he could speak in her ear. She hadn't seemed so short at a distance. "You forgot something."

She gasped and jumped, her breath coming out harshly and her hand on her chest as if it could slow down her heart rate. "You scared me!"

"I apologize," he said, his smile positively roguish as he held out the bouquet he had bought her. "You forgot these."

"I didn't buy any flowers," she said suspiciously, glancing at his eyes and the flowers before beginning to turn away.

"I know. I did. For you."

That had her turning back to him, but her expression was wary, downright mistrustful. "For me?"

"Yes."

She frowned at him. "Why?"

"You liked them. I wanted you to have them."

Her frown deepened, and she looked at the vendor as if he could clarify things for her. The vendor merely shrugged and went to help another customer. "You wasted your money."

"No such thing. Come. Take the flowers. I insist."

"But I thought that woman—"

"You were the only woman I saw."

Her eyes fluttered and she took in a deep breath. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Trying to," he said with a devilish smile. She bit her lip to hide her grin and rolled her eyes, but he cheered internally, knowing this short, spitfire of a woman thought him humorous.

"Are you trying to sell me something? Did you target me as gullible? This happened to me in Egypt once . . . got a marriage proposal, too."

"Pity you turned him down," he said with mock sadness, "but he obviously has impeccable taste to want to spend the rest of his life with you."

She scowled. "That was pretty thick."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You have no idea, sweetheart."

Again she bit her lip, and was even less successful hiding her grin. She crossed her arms underneath her chest, only serving to enhance that beautiful cleavage of hers, and he had to force himself to look into her eyes.

Her maple-syrup eyes.

"You know you want to take the flowers," he said, coming closer to her. She leaned back, but didn't move otherwise, and he was heartened even more. "And if you'd like to be even less of a target, I could escort you."

"Escort me where?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere you'd like to go. A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn't be alone, anyway. Your husband must be a fool."

"Are you serious?"

"About him being a fool?"

"About—" She abruptly cut off her speech and shook her head. "Never mind. I really must be going, but thank you for the offer—"

"AJ," he interrupted. "My name is AJ."

"AJ," she said, as if testing it out on her tongue. Her suspicious demeanor melted and she shrugged, holding out her hand. "I'm Samara."

AJ took her hand and brought it to his lips. "A wonderful pleasure to meet you, Miss Samara."

"Miss? Just a few seconds ago you had me married."

"Are you?"

She gave a wry chuckle. "Not hardly!"

He tilted his head, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand idly. "You mean some American man hasn't swept you off your feet yet?"

Samara looked down at herself and snorted. "I haven't met many professional weightlifters in my day . . ."

AJ frowned and squeezed her hand. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Disparage yourself. I think you're lovely . . . like a woman should look. You look like a woman, Samara. Never apologize for that."

"Are all Greek men this smooth?"

He gave her a half smile. "Only when appropriately inspired."

She giggled, and it was the cutest sound he'd ever heard. "Okay . . . can I have my hand back?"

"Only if you accept these flowers. It's a gift without any strings."

"Why do I not believe that?"

"Because you are an American, and Americans are as gullible as they are suspicious."

That bottom lip went between her teeth again, and all AJ could think was how it would feel between his. He wanted to pull her close, fit her to him, protect her. There would be no reason to be suspicious as long as he was around.

She shrugged again and held out her free hand. "Okay. I accept. Thank you."

He smiled and her eyelids fluttered again. He knew he was a handsome man. He'd been told often that his golden-tan skin, green eyes, and head full of black hair made him appealing, and he wasn't blind, but something about her awed expression humbled him and made him feel pride at the same time. He was glad she found him pleasing.

He handed the bouquet to her, and she scented them automatically. "This was very sweet of you."

"You're the sweet one."

"You don't know me well enough to make a judgment call like that."

"Would you let me?"

"Let you what?"

"Get to know you a little better?"

She took a deep breath, looking down at the hand he hadn't let go of, then around the marketplace. "Okay . . ."

"Really?"

"As long as we stay here in Monastiraki, then yes. I have about an hour left before I have to leave . . ."

"Then let's go," he said, tugging on her hand and leading her through the market.

As they walked and shopped, Samara seemed to avoid eye contact with him, and had he allowed her to drop her hand, she would've probably put enough space between them that another human could separate them. However, AJ refused, loving the feel of her warm hand in his, liking the fact that it wasn't dainty and slim.

He told her of the history of the market, why it was called Monastiraki, and she asked questions that told him she had a very inquisitive mind and loved history. She also began to relax, and met his eyes more whenever they spoke. Of course, she'd get that blush on her cheeks and avert her attention quickly, but he wouldn't rush her.

"'Allo! Lovely young couple, there! Paint you and the wife!"

Once again, Samara kept walking, or would have, had AJ not stopped and held fast to her hand. "What?" she asked.

"The painter would like to paint us."

She looked at him confused, then at the painter who lifted up his brush and palette and nodded enthusiastically. "Paint us?"

"Yes! Paint a beautiful couple!"

"Oh, we're not—"

"Come on, darling," AJ said, his green eyes darkening in challenge. "He is very talented, no? Though da Vinci himself wouldn't be able to capture your beauty."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "So bad . . ."

"I assure you, precious," AJ began, bending his mouth to her ear, the hairs of his trim goatee tickling her skin, "bad is not a critique I've ever gotten."

"You're getting it now," she said, smirking slightly.

He grinned, showing his even white teeth, and yanked her to him. "Please. Let's do the painting. I'll even pay."

"And you'll keep it."

"Unless you want it."

Her eyes dropped to his chest, and she let out a long-suffering sigh. "You really want the painting?"

"I do."

Samara closed her eyes and almost let her forehead drop to his chest before she caught herself. "Okay."

AJ sent up silent thanks for allowing this painter to extend his time with her. Because there was only one stool, AJ sat down first and, after much coaxing and the serendipitous discovery she was insanely ticklish, settled Samara into his lap. She was rigid at first, as if unused to being held by a man. Given how she had been behaving since he first spotted her, AJ guessed that was probably true.

American men are idiots, he determined, tucking her into his chest. Clearly they didn't deserve her if they couldn't appreciate what she had to offer.

"Relax, precious," he whispered into her ear.

"Relax?"

"I won't bite unless you give me permission."

She laughed and settled into him, the flowers cradled in her arms like a babe. Unable to help himself, he rested his chin against her temple and held her gently, and would have rocked her if they didn't need to remain still. Some people began to stop and stare at them, and Samara grew uncomfortable. She started wiggling, and he pressed a hand to her stomach with a hiss.

"You cannot do that, sweetheart."

"Do what?"

"Wiggle that delicious bum in my lap. You'll make me forget I'm trying to be a gentleman."

"Oh! I'm sorry!"

He laughed and kissed her temple. "You're so innocent, precious." He linked his fingers through hers, and was glad she didn't drop her eyes from his. They remained that way for the rest of the sitting, both ignoring the crowd, the painter, and the fact their hour was dangerously close to being up. His thumb caressed her hand, and he wanted to kiss her so badly. She wanted it, too, by the way she would lick her lips intermittingly. AJ, however, didn't want their first kiss in front of an audience, so when the painter finally said he was finished, he kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet.

"How much?" AJ asked in Greek.

"I give it to you free," the painter said, glancing at Samara briefly. "It's always nice to see a young couple in love."

AJ's heart constricted at that, but he smiled at thanked the man. He took the painting after the artist rolled it up carefully and gave the man a tip anyway. He turned around to see Samara still waiting, eyeing the painting in his hand.

"Will I get a chance to see it?"

He gave her a coy smile. "Maybe."

"Maybe!"

He chuckled and held out his hand. After a brief hesitation, she took it, and he kissed the back of her hand in gratitude.

Now the two merely strolled, she taking in the sights and he taking in her. Love . . . he couldn't possibly be in love with her, not just yet, but he knew she was one of those rare women who would make it easy to love her and not make a man regret it. There was a goodness about her, an honesty, that he hadn't encountered in a woman for far too long.

"How much of that hour do we have?" he asked after a few minutes. He had led them into a side street where there was less pedestrian traffic.

Samara looked at her watch and sucked her teeth. "I have to go now."

"Where are you staying?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"To escort you there, of course."

She gave him a small grin. "I walked here alone."

"Shame, that. You will indulge me in this, won't you, darling?"

Her grin widened and she inclined her head deferentially. "Marina Hotel."

It was not too far from the market, but it was still a nice enough walk he could play tour guide and point to all the places of interest that perhaps wouldn't be in a travel book. When they reached the entrance of her hotel, both weren't very thrilled and, as had been a theme of their day, he stopped and tugged on her hand to get her to do the same.

"Will I see you again?"

She turned to him; she didn't drop his hand. "You still want to see me?"

"Definitely, precious."

"I'm not here alone."

He winced; he couldn't help it. Could it be she actually was taken? He hoped not. The connection he felt with this woman . . . he couldn't promise not to be a cad and not to try to lure her away.

Maybe the American men weren't as dumb as he had thought.

"Then you should come to my restaurant," he said with a slightly forced smile. "I promise to give you a good deal."

"Ah, so there was an angle!"

She was teasing him, but for a moment, a defense sprung on his tongue. He gave her a slow grin and touched the tip of her nose affectionately. "You think you are so witty, precious."

"Not many men like you pay attention to girls like me, so . . ."

"Men like me?" She ducked her head and shrugged, but he wouldn't let that do. He tilted her head up and forced her to look at him. "What do you mean by that, darling?"

She bit that bottom lip once more, and he couldn't help but graze it with his thumb. She gasped, clearly shocked by his boldness. So was he. "AJ?"

"Yes, Samara."

"I have to go—"

"Men like me?" he asked again, moving that thumb across that lip. "What are 'men like me' like?"

She gave him a mild glare. "Oh, you know!"

"Enlighten me, dearest."

She was quiet for so long, he thought she wouldn't say anything, but finally, she whispered, "Gorgeous men."

"Ah. And since when did 'gorgeous' men not pay attention to gorgeous women?"

She was blushing and she bowed her head, and his hand moved from her chin to her cheek. He tilted her head up again, and he saw the tears pooled in her eyes. There was that vulnerability and disbelief, and it broke his heart to see it. It was obvious she didn't think herself repulsive, or else her appearance and her walk would've said that long before her mouth ever could. No, this was the look of a woman who had been ignored and passed over for so long she was shocked someone finally had noticed her. Didn't know how to deal with herself being discovered.

"Melonakos," AJ murmured, his thumb drifting over the swell of a smooth, caramel-brown round cheek. She was free of makeup, allowing her natural loveliness to shine through even more. "That's the name of the restaurant. And my last name."

She arched an eyebrow. "Is the food good?" Her voice was husky.

"The best you'll find on the peninsula," AJ said a little cockily.

She grinned and nodded. "Okay. I'll hold you to that claim."

"Great," he said, smiling as well. Goodness, all he wanted to do was lift her in his arms and rock her, comfort her. He forced himself to drop his hand and back away, or else he'd never let her go. "I recommend coming at six, right before the evening rush. I'll reserve the best table for you."

"VIP, huh?"

"The most important person," AJ amended with a wink.

A giggle slipped out, and she shook her head. "All right, Mr. Melonakos. We'll see you at six."

"I eagerly anticipate the hour," he said. He didn't leave until long after she had disappeared into the hotel, and he bounced the painting in his free hand. He might have to keep the painting for himself and frame it, a reminder of his delightful American woman.

Prologue

1953

The screen door burst open and bounced against the wall a few times before creaking slowly back to its formerly-closed position. Two children, the eldest being the one who first blundered through the door, talked hurriedly to the black woman in the small-print floral smock who was mixing batter for cornbread, and showed her the bleeding finger of the crying second child.

"Lawd, Ceelee, I told you you was too young to be playin' wit' them boys!" the woman replied on a sigh, setting the bowl down and taking the injured brown finger in her hand.

This child, Ceelee, sniffled, her bottom lip poking out far beyond its normal place. "They was mean, Mama!"

"They called her tar baby, Aunty Patty!" the first child said, lifting himself on the counter and dipping into the mix. Aunty Patty gave the boy a reproachful look, and he blushed, but put the offending finger in his mouth anyway.

"Mama, they pulled my hair, too," Ceelee croaked, following her mother as she led her to the sink. Patty turned on the faucet and lifted her daughter so her hands would reach the running water.

"Benny, what were y'all doin' so Ceelee hurt her finger? Y'all stayed in that backyard?"

He stood beside her, his attention focused on his friend's finger. "Yeah! We was swordfightin' with branches and stupid Tommy Birch took a swipe at Ceelee's hand 'cause she wanted a turn holdin' the sword."

Patty rolled her eyes, rubbing a soap cake over Ceelee's hands. "Told you not to play wit' them boys, now!"

"But Mama, it's fun!" Ceelee declared, her pain gone and anxious to play again.

"Yeah, and I got ole Tommy—gave him a good lick in his jaw!"

"Excuse me, young man, you did what?!"

Ceelee and Benny looked at each other with wide eyes, scared at the new voice.

"Miss Florence . . ." Patty sighed, turning off the water and setting down Ceelee to the side. The other woman wore a smart dark blue cardigan over a crisp white blouse and a black skirt. Her blonde hair was short and curled around her head, making it appear as a soft halo, and her face was perfected with flawless makeup accentuating her thin lips, narrow nose, and aristocratic eyebrows. "I was just—"

Florence's hand cut off Patty's explanation, and she regarded her son with a stern look. "Benjamin Mark Drummond, tell me you did not hit Tommy Birch! Your father and I raised you better than that!"

Benny dropped his head and nodded, shuffling his feet and putting his hands in his pockets. "Sorry, Mama . . ."

Florence frowned at him once more before turning her attention to Patty. "Is dinner almost ready?"

Patty nodded, tying a napkin around Ceelee's finger in a makeshift bandage. "Ceelee got hurt playin' outside, so I had to take care of it. It'll be ready soon as the cornbread's done."

Florence clasped her hands at her stomach and tsked. "She shouldn't be playing with boys, Patty. She's a little girl; she should be doing girl things, like playing with dolls or learning how to cook. Why doesn't she stay in here and watch you? It'll be useful lessons for her, don't you think?"

Patty's smile was tight and she went back to the cornbread mix, her wrist action more lively than earlier. "Ceelee would be bored to death just sittin' in here lookin' at me, Miss Florence. Besides, she's used to playin' with boys; she plays with Luther Jr. and his friends while at home . . ."

Florence scoffed, pulling off the lids of the pots on the stove to peek at what Patty was cooking. "But there aren't any appropriate children here for Coralee to play with—"

"She plays with me, Mama; I'm her friend! That's why I hit Tommy Birch! Because he called her a tar—"

"Ain't no use repeatin' it now, Benny," Patty said, knocking the mixing spoon against the side of the bowl for the excess batter to slide off it. "What's done is done."

"But Aunty Patty—"

"Why don't you go read Ceelee one o' yo' books, huh?" Patty suggested, giving her young charge a warm smile. "Ceelee loves to hear you read."

"Yeah!" the little girl squealed, "I wanna hear about Curious George again!"

The children left in excited chatter, and Patty grinned, secretly pleased little Benjamin treated her daughter as a true friend. Florence sighed and stood next to Patty as the housekeeper poured the mix in a square tin pan. "This is not good, Patty. Benjamin's becoming far too attached to Coralee."

Patty bit her lip, catching drops of the mix on her finger and wiping them on her apron. "They're just children, Miss Florence—"

"Benjamin is seven years old and in first grade! By the time I was his age I knew the way of the world!"

"I've nowhere to leave her, Miss Florence," Patty explained, placing the tin in the preheated oven. She turned the stove's eyes on simmer to keep the rest of the food warm. "Ceelee and Benny usually stay out of trouble; today was . . . special."

Florence's eyebrows quirked. "If they keep on going the way they are, they'll be in all sorts of trouble when they're older . . ."

Patty, who had been wiping down the counter, slowed her movements and stared at the wet streaks on the marigold countertop. "Miss Florence, they just children! Benny's at school most of the time, anyway, and Ceelee does help me here . . . but today was a holiday . . ."

Florence leaned against the counter, speaking in low tones near Patty's cheek. "Don't tell me you can't see it, how protective my son is of your daughter! He feels too much affection for someone so obviously wrong for him!  I mean can you really imagine it? Benjamin in love with a nigra!"

"Miss Florence, now—"

The other woman placed her hand on top of Patty's. "I'm not saying Coralee's not a nice young girl, but she needs to be around . . . her kind . . ."

Patty looked at Florence out the corner of her eye, inhaling slowly before exhaling and starting her cleaning again. "You don't think you panickin' for nothin'? Ceelee's only four years old! Benny's seven! For all we know he probably still thinks girls have cooties!"

Florence said nothing, patting Patty's shoulder before going to the kitchen door and watching her son read to her housekeeper's daughter. Florence frowned when Benny wrapped an arm around Ceelee, bringing the girl closer to him.

She sniffed, leaving the door to stand in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed at her chest. "My son certainly does not think Coralee has cooties!"

Patty shook her head and shrugged, going to the sink and wringing the excess water out the dishrag. "He probably thinks of Ceelee as a little sister . . ."

Florence tilted her chin upward. "Nevertheless, I think you should stop bringing Coralee here. We wouldn't want this 'friendship' escalating to something indecent."

Patty laid the rag gently on the edge of the sink, clenching her jaw and counting to five before responding. "I won't bring her again."

A large smile bloomed on Florence's face, and she took a deep breath, relaxing her posture. "I'm going to freshen up. Call me when dinner is ready? And don't forget to fix Paul a plate. He's having a long day at court today. I tell you, all this 'civil rights' legislation creates so much paperwork nowadays . . ."

Patty merely leaned against the counter and gave her boss a wan smile. Florence returned it, glancing at the children before making her retreat. Patty's smile disappeared and she shook her head, pulling silverware out to set the table. People like Florence Drummond kept progress from happening in Plumville, yet as much as she didn't want to admit it, Miss Florence had a point. Benny and Ceelee's affection for one another could reach dangerous territory if it wasn't stopped. Benny proved that today with his oblivious defense of Ceelee's feelings. In fact, Benny should be right beside that Birch boy calling her daughter names, but he wasn't. It helped Patty had been working in the Drummond home for years, even before Benjamin was born. She used to bring Luther Jr. to work before he got old enough to go to school, and after Coralee was born, the three of them had grand times making up games and telling stories, though little Ceelee mostly listened and ran to her mother's knee when the boys' stories got a little too scary.

But now, it was only Coralee and Benjamin, and their friendship had manifested itself differently. It was almost as if Coralee's brother had been a buffer to the something between the other two children. Benjamin was not Coralee's brother; his relationship with her was anything but fraternal. It was as if Coralee was the most precious thing in the world to Benjamin, and she adored her playmate as well, almost talking about him constantly at home—to the consternation of her father.

Patty hummed lowly as she completed the final place setting, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as if asking for guidance. Patty was all for equality and togetherness, and saw Benjamin and Coralee as hope for the future . . . but not necessarily with the two being together that way.

The timer buzzed, jerking Patty out of her musings, and she slipped on mitts before pulling the golden brown cornbread from the oven. She allowed it to cool on a trivet and checked the other pots and pans to make sure the food remained decent.

"Mama!" Patty fixed a plate for Mr. Drummond and smiled as her daughter held up a Curious George book. "Benny say I can keep it!"

Patty put the backs of her hands to her hips, arching an eyebrow when the boy in question entered the kitchen. "That's very nice of you to give that book to her, Benny."

Benny smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I have loads of the books, and Ceelee likes it so . . ."

A slow smile crept on Patty's face. "You really like my daughter, don't you?"

He nodded excitedly. "Yes'm! When we get older we gonna get married!"

Patty's mouth dropped open while Ceelee made a disgusted face. "Married? We gon' hafta do all that icky kissy stuff like my mama and daddy?"

Benny scrunched up his face and stuck out his tongue. "Oh no! Just we can stay in the same house and play forever and ever and ever—"

"And read Curious George?" Ceelee interrupted excitedly.

Benny grinned and nodded, wrapping his arm around the smaller girl. "Yeah! I could read to you every night!"

"All right, Benny, before you begin makin' weddin' plans go get yo' Mama and tell her dinner's ready," Patty commanded, putting Mr. Drummond's plate in the oven and closing its door. Though the oven was off, the lingering heat inside would hold the food at a comfortable temperature.

"I'm gonna tell Mama!" Benny exclaimed as he did Patty's bidding, and Patty groaned.

"Mama?"

She set the prepared dinner plates on the table for the other two Drummonds, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter. "Yeah, Ceelee?"

"How old I gotta be befo' I get married?"

Patty smiled softly, crouching before her daughter and touching her cheek lightly. "Not fo' a long while, sweetheart. Right now you just concentrate on bein' the cutest four-year-old this side of Plumville!"

Ceelee smiled, pressing a kiss to her mother's cheek. "Yes'm, Mama."

Patty stood, taking her daughter's hand and they went to the backdoor. She helped the girl put on her coat, then slipped hers on, smiling as Ceelee buttoned the bottom while she handled the top. "Thank you, sweet pea."

"Welcome Mama . . ."

"Patty! A word . . ."

Florence's face was pinched, her eyes following her son's progress to Coralee. Patty slid her purse on her arm, allowing Florence to guide her into the main dining room.

"Ma'am?"

"'They're just children,' eh?"  Patty said nothing, watching red creep into Florence's cheeks. "Coralee's a nice girl, but not for my Benjamin, you understand?"

Patty nodded slowly. "Yes'm."

Florence let out a slow breath, squeezing Patty's forearm. "I know it's hard for you, but Coralee needs another place to stay during the day . . . got to nip these fanciful notions in the bud . . ."

"Yes'm."

Florence gave a sympathetic smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Patty."

Patty gave a curt nod and walked briskly to the backdoor. "Say goodbye, Ceelee."

The little girl hugged her friend tightly, murmuring thank you for the book. Benny's cheeks reddened slightly, and he patted her back awkwardly.

"See you later, Ceelee!" Benny called, as they walked down the steps. Ceelee waved and hugged her mother's leg, an edge of the book biting into Patty's lower thigh.

Patty and Florence regarded each other, both holding onto their children as if they were lifelines. Florence nodded imperceptibly and ushered Benjamin inside, closing the door with a soft, creaking click.

Patty rubbed Ceelee's shoulders and exhaled. "C'mon, baby, let's go home."

She took her daughter's hand and they began the hour-long walk from the big, well-kept houses and businesses of downtown Plumville to the small, patched-together dwellings of its southern side. Patty listened to Ceelee chatter away about what she and Benjamin would do the next time they saw each other. Patty wondered how she would tell Coralee "next time" would never come . . .